Damnation
by Arinia
Summary: Aziraphale had come back from Hell safe and sound. In one piece. That should have been the end of it.


Damnation

He can't get rid of the stench of sulphur.

It lingers everywhere. The pages of the new books Adam gifted his shop. In the little tartan of biscuits he has on his desk. His beloved jacket, where not even Crowley's miracle is enough to counteract it.

He doesn't understand; this body didn't go to Hell, shouldn't carry the stain of that awful reminder. At first he thought it was simply his memory playing tricks on him, and he resolved to shove it out of sight. He doused himself in cologne, and threw open every window in his shop, letting the sunlight stream in to wash the darkness away. It wasn't until he stood in his shower, arms scrubbed raw red that he realized it wasn't going away.

It'd been ten days since they pulled off their little swap. Ten glorious days where the communications from Heaven and Hell were silenced, and they were at long last left to their own devices. Aziraphale wasn't sure at first what would become of his and Crowley's relationship. There was no need for the Arrangement, no need to discuss feverish plans for the Apocalypse over liquor and chocolates. Perhaps Crowley, ever restless, would wander about the world, causing mischief wherever he saw fit.

Once, while they were standing guard over Warlock, Crowley had mused he wanted to travel the world. _You know, I've been holed up in London last couple decades, and if we fuck it up and the world ends, I've barely seen the damn place since the 20__th__ century. _Aziraphale had tried not to look panicked at the thought of Crowley being so far, painting on a tense smile and chastising him that he'd waited till the Apocalypse to explore.

But, Crowley had stayed. The sleek Bentley greeted Aziraphale every morning, a hand reaching out for his own, and a glimpse of yellow eyes reserved only for him. Aziraphale hadn't dared push his luck and ask why Crowley stayed; 6000 years of unspoken longing is a hard habit to break.

Aziraphale had suggested a picnic, another promise kept, and so that's where they were, birds twittering overhead, and the sunlight warming their skin. Crowley is close by, he always is these days, one hand atop Aziraphale's knee as he drinks brandy straight from the bottle.

Gently, he presses his nose into Crowley's hair; it's getting long again as the styles shift, tickling his nostrils as Crowley allows this. Surely, a demon, a creature of Hell, would reek of sulphur?

Crowley smells faintly of fire and smoke, mingled together with a painfully human shampoo. Aziraphale presses closer, panic rising into his throat like bile, because Crowley should smell like Hell; he was Fallen, he was marked.

"What're you doing?"

Aziraphale jumps back, startled, met with an all too knowing smirk and eyes that pierce him even behind dark shades. That nervous smile tugs at his lips, hands fumbling with his cuff-links because even now, it's difficult sometimes to gaze at Crowley too long.

"A-ah, nothing, my dear. New shampoo?"

It's times like these where he's reminded of what Crowley truly is. The smirk turns fiendish, though it contains no malice, never has towards him, and the hand that caresses his cheek beckons him to shut his eyes and give in.

"Nope."

It's been centuries, millennia, since he's feared Crowley. Not when he's glimpsed so many remnants of Grace lurking within, whether Crowley is aware of it or not. The jolt of terror that lurches through him now is alarming, and he turns away before Crowley spots it, because he always does, he always has.

The hand on his knee is leaden, and for the first time since Armageddon, Aziraphale prays.

! ! ! !

Sleep never appealed to Aziraphale the way it did to Crowley. There was too many things to see in the world to spend lying still and missing all the intricate beauty humanity contained. He had tried it on occasion, if only to see if unconsciousness was as blissful as food or drink, but it never sat quite right with him.

He could power through decades, if not centuries without so much as a nap, and no amount of human triumph or misery had ever changed things.

One month after his return from Hell, his body is breaking down.

Sleep claws at his every waking moment, lurking in the corner of his vision as he pores over his favourite tomes, when he miracles some pounds into a hungry mother's wallet, when Crowley runs a hand along his spine and says more than words ever could.

He has a bedroom tucked away in a little alcove above the shop, complete with the most luxurious silken sheets and down filled pillows on Earth. He had seldom used it himself; in fact Crowley had gotten more use of it over the last two centuries than he had. Now, he finds himself crawling into it every week, eyes burning and fingers trembling. He prays and prays; _Please not tonight. I'll do anything._

It always goes unheard.

He slips into dreams where the sulphur is choking him, nearly blinding his vision, but he can still somehow see every detail as he's dragged across the glass littered floor. Jeers follow him down, down, down until there are no more lights, only sounds, only the foul stench of something rotting.

He's left there in the blackness, where time ceases to exist, and he's paralyzed by some unseen hand. There's something cold slithering across his neck, squeezing the life out of him. It's not at all like Crowley, curled around him, warm and familiar.

A fire springs to life, a blaze brighter than any on Earth. It consumes the room, leaving only the floor where he's laid untouched. It burns and burns, smoke filling his lungs and sinking into his blood. He's watching, entranced. Unable to look away despite feeling the hatred within it, enticing.

And, when he's pulled upwards at last, marched towards his execution, it's not Crowley's face peering back at him in the windows but his own. Twisted and mangled, with red eyes instead of blue. There's peels of laughter bouncing off the walls, and it's his own, hysterical, as his halo clatters to the floor and Hellfire licks away his earthly vessel.

Crowley is there, Risen, just out of reach. Splendour radiates from him, donned in white. Aziraphale flings out a hand towards him, desperate, pleading, but Crowley turns away in disgust, gone, gone, gone...

"Angel."

Aziraphale jolts awake. Moonlight peaks in behind the blinds, illuminating Crowley's sharp features. He looks around, heart hammering in his chest, as he takes in the familiar setting of his little bedroom with the silken sheets and down-filled pillows. A hand reaches out and cups his face and Aziraphale realizes his cheeks are wet.

"I thought you went home." A strange expression flits across Crowley's features, and he shifts closer, pretending he doesn't see Aziraphale flinch.

"You asked me to stay."

Had he? He struggles to remember, the images of Hell still fresh in his mind. They had been drinking, they drank often these days, especially Aziraphale. He remembers Crowley helping him up the stairs, chiding him for getting drunk first. He remembers grabbing onto his hand when Crowley had turned to go, begging him to remain by his side, too far gone to catch the worried look on Crowley's face.

"Ah. Well, I was quite drunk. Not exactly thinking straight, as you know." He aches to be held by Crowley, and simultaneously dreads it. The hand is still on his cheek, more gentle than a demon should be capable of, and it's all he can do not to lean into it with a soft whimper.

"You're drinking more, Aziraphale." He rarely says his name, and certainly not that seriously. He moves away from the hand, regrets it immediately, and hastily wipes the wetness away with a tinkling laugh.

"Oh my dear, your temptations must be working on me, I suppose. Perhaps we should give the spirits a rest, though. I assure you, I'm quite fine, there's no need to stay."

Crowley ignores him, staring at him unblinking until Aziraphale can't help but meet his gaze. He never wears his glasses anymore around him he's noticed, and often in his dreams Aziraphale cries out for yellow eyes in the darkness.

"Sleep is really such a trifling thing," he tries again. Crowley's taken his hands, and Aziraphale should push them away, rather than tightening his grip around them. "I really don't know why you do it so much."

Crowley is coming closer and Aziraphale shuts his eyes expectantly. When his lips brush against his forehead, Aziraphale lets out a soft gasp that it no longer burns.

! ! ! !

"You're shaking."

Crowley's voice echoes behind him, gritty and comforting, and even with his back turned, Aziraphale can picture his expression. He turns a fraction, just enough to see the sharp eyes boring into him, and he clamps down on the trembling breath that threatens to escape.

Crowley has wormed his way into every facet of his life; slipping in the tiniest cracks and filling up spaces Aziraphale didn't know existed. He had spent so long keeping Crowley at an arm's length, only getting closer in increments; just enough to satiate his desire. But, now Crowley is everywhere, close enough to taste, and Aziraphale suddenly finds his will has vanished.

There's ancient fears that prick him when he looks at Crowley. Fear in how easy it is for their hands to find each other. Fear in how his heart soars with only a mischievous wink cast in his direction.

But, a new fear has been born, one that mocks him on the fringes of his subconscious. He's always loved Crowley. That much was undeniable, even back then. But suddenly, there's parts of Crowley he finds _alluring_.

Parts he had once found repulsive.

It's the way he runs his fingers along the curves of the snake tattoo, shivering. It's kissing him over and over, unable to get enough, feeling his tongue burn with supreme wickedness. It's calling out for Crowley in the dead of night after dreams of Hell; not just for comfort, but because Crowley is from Below, the thread that links these two inexplicable worlds together.

"Frightfully drafty, these old buildings," he replies breezily, a lie neither of them believe. Tremors race through his back down into his fingers, no matter how tightly he clenches his fist. Crowley is behind him now, and his heart quickens in response.

"You've always been a terrible fucking liar."

To a human ear it dripped with venom. For all his innate _niceness,_ there is still blackness woven throughout his soul, itching to corrupt. He was Hell's representative after all, duty bound to strike fear into the hearts of men.

But, Aziraphale can tease out the true meaning; the way Crowley's hands skate down to his shoulder blades, softly, so softly. He tenses, because Crowley knows, and he's not ready to talk about this, not today.

"I would appreciate you didn't use that language around-"

"When's the last time you took care of your wings?"

There is no mistaking the sharp intake of breath or the way Aziraphale's entire body seizes up at once. He comes close to swearing himself, instead grinding out an unusually clipped, "Recently enough."

Another lie. Angel's aren't supposed to lie this easily. In the past, he blamed Crowley. At the End of the World, he blamed necessity.

He wasn't sure who to blame now.

Crowley presses his thumbs where the wings remain securely tucked out of sight. It's not gentle, but the sorrowful voice he whispers his name in gives him away. It's hard to remain committed to the lie when so much adoration radiates from Crowley's fingertips, and his shoulders slump in defeat.

Wings are finicky things. Unlike his human body which can endure no things a human ever could, his wings need constant attention. Yet here they were, 3 months later, searing in agony at being ignored, and Aziraphale could hide it no longer.

"Why." A loaded question. One Aziraphale can't answer, doesn't want to answer.

"It's really no cause for alarm," Aziraphale chokes out, mouth suddenly dry. Crowley's thumbs are rubbing circles over the bone, and Aziraphale can feel his conviction slipping away.

"Let me do it." It's the closest they've come to admitting the way the currents are shifting, and another bolt of fear flashes through him. _It's fine. There's nothing to worry about. You'll have your answers and realize you're being just a big, old silly. _

They're in his bedroom, Crowley closing the door and drawing the blinds even though it's impossible for anyone to see their wings anyway. Aziraphale idly plucks a strand of long, red hair from his pillow, drawing a strange sort of strength from it as he inhales a shuddering breath, and lets his wings burst free.

There's silence, save for the way his heart pounds in his ears. Crowley won't say anything, he knows he won't unless he's asked, and in this moment, Aziraphale isn't sure whether he begrudges him for that or not.

There's a veneer of pleasure at feeling Crowley's deft fingers in his feathers, but it's tightly stretched over anxiety. Any other moment he would be boneless, lost in ecstasy, for an angel's wings are an extension of their soul. And Crowley is loving; pouring every ounce of himself into this task as he straightens every feather. He wishes he could enjoy it, but all he thinks about is what the steadily growing pile of feathers says about his fate.

The sunlight struggling through the blinds is amber by the time Crowley is through. He's been silent the entire time, and Aziraphale isn't sure if the tension he's feeling is his own or the demon's. He shuts his eyes, lips parted, when he feels Crowley gently kiss each wing.

"You're beautiful, angel." His voice is odd sounding, and Aziraphale's heart lurches. He pulls in his wings, whirling around to look Crowley straight in the eye. The feathers are just out of his sight; one glance below and he'd have his answers but he can't bring himself to do it.

"Everything's fine. Like I said." It comes out high and strained, and Crowley makes a motion as if he'll lift the feather up to his line of vision, but Aziraphale pushes his hand back down forcefully.

"Aziraphale-"

No. He's not doing this today. Not when he feels that horrifying itch creep into his skin, the one that is enticed by yellow eyes and darkness.

"I said I'm fine! Tickety-boo!" Crowley's expression is pain-filled, and Aziraphale feels all the things he's been denying cascade over him. "I-I would have felt something! Pain or-or fire! Not just-" he's not sure how to put into words all the things he's been doing with Crowley, and when Crowley attempts to grab his hand he snatches it away.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, and there's an edge to his voice. "We need to-"

"I want you to go."

Crowley freezes, just like he did at the bandstand the last time harsh words fell past Aziraphale's lips. It's even harder to watch without his sunglasses; seeing every lick of hurt cross his face. His resolve is far less than it was three months ago, but Aziraphale sets his mouth firmly, if only to stop it quivering.

Crowley's expression twists, and he's on his feet in one fluid motion, the feathers bundled in his grasp. Aziraphale never takes his eyes off his face, and his neck is beginning to strain. "Fine," Crowley hisses, sunglasses coming from nowhere and being jammed on his nose. The door bursts open and Crowley is gone, making a racket as he marches out of the bookshop.

Aziraphale curls up on his empty bed, the red strand of hair still in his grasp. There was no way. No way it could be true. He had seen it enough times before the Earth was created. And he was being honest. There had been no pain. No fire.

But, he was cold. So very, very cold.

! ! ! !

They don't mention Crowley storming away when they next see each other. Thousands of years of pretending everything was fine is ingrained in them. Aziraphale chides Crowley's driving and is called a mother hen in return, and it almost feels like old times except for the way their hands clasp together.

They don't mention how every morning Aziraphale stares at his reflection in the bathroom, tense as he searches for any flecks of red among the deep blue irises. Crowley watching from the bed, holding his breath, until Aziraphale comes back with the tension wrung from his shoulders and at last greets him with a good morning kiss.

They don't mention the days where Aziraphale goes on a miracle spree, desperation taut in every line on his face. They'll drive to soup kitchens, to orphanages, to hospitals, and Crowley lurks behind as Aziraphale takes flight like a dove, trying to bring a little good into this world. It's the few times anymore Aziraphale seems genuinely happy, collapsing into a chair at the end of the day, a bright, relieved smile stretching from ear to ear.

The don't mention Aziraphale crying out in the throes of an intimate moment, _Damn__ me, __Crowley__! _and meaning every word. When Crowley stops dead, eyes wide, and Aziraphale doubles down, grabbing hold of his face and begging him: _I want to burn_. Anger takes hold and Crowley pins him, lips curled in a snarl, and voice a deadly hiss._ Don't you dare! Don't you fucking dare put that on me!_ Crowley stays away for weeks, leaving Aziraphale to stew in his horror and guilt. He winds up at Crowley's flat, eyes wet with apology, because he still means those words, and he doesn't know how to stop it.

They don't mention the day Aziraphale inexplicably disappeared. No phone call, no text, no letter bearing his distinct stationary. Crowley feeling as though he's back in a burning bookshop, all his worst fears coming true, and it is only because of their peculiar ability to sense each other he doesn't tear into Heaven and Hell looking for him. He finds him half a day later, deep in the Scottish countryside, inside an old church. When Aziraphale emerges, he doesn't tell Crowley he had been at the altar praying fervently, trying to see if he could still feel the faint tendrils of Goodness in that sacred place. Crowley doesn't ask, only spits _You absolute idiot_ and takes careful note of Aziraphale's feet later on for any burns.

They don't mention the time Aziraphale nearly collapsed, searing pain running up his spine and into his chest, making his vision go dark. Excruciating pain, unimaginable, and Crowley beside him, yelling in terror, _No, no, no, no please no! Aziraphale!_ Cries ripped from his throat, more distraught than anything Aziraphale's ever heard, and he focuses on that voice, that light in the darkness. He comes to, shaky and pale, but the pain is gone just as quickly as it's come, and Crowley is staring at him with blown out eyes and trembling white lips. They hold each other all night, silent, Crowley checking him every hour, but they still say nothing, still refuse to bring into reality what might have occurred, fearful of how little they truly know.

They don't mention the night Aziraphale hears Crowley speaking to God. When Aziraphale was supposed to be sleeping, and overhears Crowley in the room with his plants, voice thick with tears. Listening in shock as Crowley pleads, _Don't do this. Please don't do this. He's one of the _good_ ones, you know he doesn't belong in that filthy pit._ He hears Crowley offer himself up as a sacrifice, a trade, and the only thing stopping Aziraphale from bursting through is the strange tug in his core, something beautiful and stilling. When Crowley comes back to bed, sniffling oddly, Aziraphale pretends to be asleep, eyes wide with wonder.

They don't mention all these things because thousands of years of pretending everything was fine is ingrained in them. Aziraphale wishes desperately at times that they would. Shouldering the world alone, even though they had promised to be on each other's side, is a crushing burden.

! ! ! !

"I don't know what's happening to me," Aziraphale whispers finally. It's dark in his bedroom, and he's being comforted after visiting Hell in his sleep. Crowley says nothing at first, fingers still winding through Aziraphale's curls.

"I'll be there," he vows with a touch of anguish, sealing it with a kiss.

It sounds like an inevitability.

! ! ! !

The waves gently lap at their toes, washing away any remnants of sand. It's bright out despite being midnight; the full moon drenching everything in its ethereal glow and a thousand stars spattered across the sky. Aziraphale is propped up against Crowley's shoulder and the braid he'd put in the demon's hair brushes against his cheek whenever Crowley kisses his head. The scent of smoke and fire mingles with his own ever-present sulphur; he's grown used to it by now, and that once disturbed him greatly.

The ocean has always felt closest to Heaven on Earth for Aziraphale. Vast, wondrous, and teeming with life and beauty. He knows the cosmos are the same for Crowley, why they've gotten out of London to see the pinpricks of light.

"What was it like?" Aziraphale suddenly breaks the silence, surprising even himself with the question.

"What was what like?"

"When you... you Fell."

Immediately, Crowley tenses. In all their years of friendship, Aziraphale has never asked about Crowley's Fall. He had always been curious, had even gone so far as to poke around Upstairs for information on Crowley. All Crowley had ever told him was that he had "sauntered vaguely downwards" with such a bitter expression on his face Aziraphale hadn't dared press further.

He isn't sure if Crowley is going to answer. His entire face is carved like stone, eyes flicking from one star to another with so much pain in them it twists Aziraphale's heart. He almost takes it back before Crowley turns to him, slow and deliberate, expelling a breath.

"It's not what you're probably thinking. That I just sky-dived right into Hell with the rest of them in some blaze of unholy fire." He chuckles dryly, eyes remaining cold. "Nah, I really did saunter downwards, Angel. Everyday a little more questioning. Just a bit, you know? Longer it went on, the more I enjoyed it." Aziraphale swallows at that and Crowley continues. "It felt damn good, so _damn_ good. You think Adam and Eve enjoyed my little temptation? Nothing compared to how it felt flouting God."

A chilled breeze whistles through their hair, and Crowley pulls him closer on instinct.

"I knew what I was doing, Aziraphale. On some level, at least. Kept on pushing more towards Hell and before I knew it-" he brings his hand down against his thigh. "I'm done. Over the edge." He turns away, but Aziraphale still catches the anguished look.

"And did it-" Aziraphale whispers after a time, lead lining his stomach, "did it hurt?"

"Yeah." Crowley's voice is equally quiet. "More than anything. Piece of my soul being ripped out and replaced with... with emptiness." There's a long pause and Crowley still has his gaze firmly away. "Burned for years. You don't just free-fall into the Pit and wake up the next morning a demon. You've got to earn it."

Aziraphale shudders, remembering the sinful words he had laid at Crowley's feet like a prayer. Crowley seems to pick up on this, turning back to him with an expression torn between fury and despair.

"Why do you think I fought so damn hard to stop Armageddon?"

The tide is coming in strong now, racing up their calves and making them glisten. Aziraphale wonders idly what it would be like to sit here all night, to watch the water grow and grow until it subsumes him completely.

Where would he end up?

"When you were in Heaven... were you there a long time?"

How long has it been since they averted the End of the World? When they met on that park bench, relief overcoming them that their plan had somehow worked? All this time and they had fastidiously ignored the topic, just like everything else, comforting themselves that indulging in their affection was progress enough.

Aziraphale is feeling brave as the cold ocean creeps towards his lap. Crowley is looking at him with undisguised surprise, and Aziraphale is thankful that the glasses have long since been discarded. Is he brave because the scent of sulphur and smoke meld so perfectly together? Because of all the kisses Crowley has dropped in the hollow of his throat?

"Hard to say. Not long, I guess. Efficiency has always been what they're good at up there." He casts his eyes upwards, narrowed into slits, pulling Aziraphale even closer so that he can feel Crowley's heart beating furiously in his chest. Aziraphale had often wondered what they had said to him, at the end of his life. Was there regret? Was there any chance for forgiveness?

"When I was down there," and for the first time Aziraphale doesn't stammer over the mention of Below, "they didn't put me on trial right away. I suppose Hell likes drawing things out a little, hm? They put me in this dark room and-"

"Did they-?!" Crowley looks wounded, twisting his body so they're facing, hands gripping onto his shoulders. A soothing hand comes up to cup that jutted cheek, so sharp, so perfect.

"No, Crowley." He makes sure to hold his gaze, so that Crowley knows he's telling the truth. So many lies have slid so easily off his tongue when it comes to Crowley. Too many. Crowley lets his hands fall but keeps close, rapt with attention, and Aziraphale swallows and carries on.

"But it _was_ dark. Quite dark." He can hear the quiver in his voice. "I couldn't see at all, it-it was darker than anything on Earth. And silent. I always imagined Hell would be screams and torture, and maybe it is," he adds, seeing Crowley open his mouth, "but this was far worse than I imagined. I thought I had quite lost myself. Forever.

"And then suddenly there's this fire. I thought oh no, no this is it, our plan has gone awry, they've found us out. And it got so close to me I could feel how _scorching_ it was." He can see it in his eye, the fire that visits him nightly, ethereal and beautiful and full of poison.

"But... it was odd... peculiar thoughts started entering my head. I started thinking about you, about how I might never see you again and I've been so silly and afraid." He inhales shakily, wringing his hands together, finding it so hard to look at those piercing eyes. "Then I started thinking... if I... I was _there,_ there'd be no more obstacles. And I could be free. If I just... took one little step, I'd Fall into your grasp."

Crowley is breathing heavily through his nose, jaw clenched together so hard Aziraphale can see the vein jumping beneath the skin. The sea is at their waists now, drenching them, and Aziraphale revels in the lack of miracle, that the cold seeps into his bones.

"You-" his voice is cracked and dry. "I would rather never see you again than have you-you _Fall_ because of me!"

"And I would rather Fall than live a life without you," Aziraphale's voice snaps like a whip, grabbing Crowley's hands and holding them to his chest. Crowley snarls, an inhuman sound, but Aziraphale is steady with the roll of the waves and the taste of forbidden pleasure. "I am not sorry for it, Crowley. Not ever again."

They're ripping open old battle scars, ripping deeper and deeper, releasing all the turmoil that has coloured 6000 long years. That anger that burns in Crowley, blazes through into Aziraphale, so tempting and familiar; it compels him to draw closer so that their noses scrape together. He wonders what Crowley feels when they touch, what he feels now that Aziraphale has come back Marked.

Because that is what he is, isn't he? Scarred. Tainted. He's not sure how deep it goes, how far it has sunk its claws into him. How close to the precipice is he? Teetering on the knife's edge, clinging to Crowley, clinging to Above, clinging to all the old ideals that once brought him such great purpose. His resolve suddenly splinters, and he bites back a sob bubbling forth, centuries old.

"I tried so hard for _so long_ to do right. All I wanted was to bring glory to the Almighty. To fulfill my duty to Creation and love it. I didn't want to be cast out. I didn't want to lose Her love. I didn't want to be like _you_, couldn't be like you, even though before you I was already straying, I was, I was..."

Crowley's cheeks are wet. Perhaps it's from the spray of the ocean, claiming their stomachs, their arms, their elbows.

Crowley presses their foreheads together, cupping the back of his neck and kissing him. Kissing Crowley no longer burns, it hasn't burned for a long time. Instead it feels Divine, and Aziraphale sinks into him with absolute reverence, because it's always been Crowley, always.

"You know the truth, don't you," Aziraphale breathes into the small space between them.

Crowley nods once. He can see the slits surrounded by gold. Gold not yellow, he had once murmured to Crowley under the stars one night. Precious. Treasured.

Aziraphale inhales deeply. It's smoke. Sulphur. The painfully human shampoo Crowley adores and the cologne his beloved barber recommended him. There's something else there, faint, a gentle wind against a strand of hair, sublime.

"Am I still... Aziraphale?"

Crowley's face crumples, hands splayed on his cheeks, shaking him slightly. He's beautiful; the pinnacle of God's creation, and Aziraphale had never felt it to be more true than now, with the water rising to their chests, choking off their breath.

"_Yes._ Always. Always, angel."

He draws strength from the words, from the ocean, from the one who had always been by his side. Terror still licks at his heart, a nervous flutter, but it is time. He is ready.

A wave crests, high and strong, able to submerge them completely in its icy grasp. Aziraphale's wings burst free, mighty and unstoppable, and as they wrap around Crowley, a protective shield, he finally sees the truth.

He smiles.

**A/N:** I've been wanting to dig into Aziraphale's time in Hell and the aftermath ever since I watched the show. I've been fascinated that he's made such morally grey choices throughout the years and never came close to Falling. How would he react when thrown up against real temptation? Obviously this diverges from canon slightly with how long and what happened to him in Hell, but I hoped you enjoyed it nonetheless. I've left the end deliberately ambiguous; you can interpret how you like if he's truly Fallen or something else entirely is going on!


End file.
